


The Pendulum Equation

by ElrueFaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, dark!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:38:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElrueFaerie/pseuds/ElrueFaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock's narcissism finally gets the best of him and John believes it is his job to pull the detective back into reality. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pendulum Equation

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [呱](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/15910) by wingceltis. 



> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, the characters, etc etc etc (do we still need these??)  
> WOO HOO! I'm back from the land of Writer's Block. Which I apparently moved to about 3 years ago...wow. Thank you forever and ever to Yon-chan and Brit for putting up with my endless needling and questions about everything from life to fic-beta-ing!  
> This idea floated around in my language-addled brain all through study season after first being exposed to red-pants Mondays. I referenced the pic that inspired this writing somewhere on here. Please give the artist, wingceltis, some credit for the emotions it brought me :)
> 
> It took about 2 months for me to get my English back on track enough to sit down and write it. After which, I felt extremely proud of it. Hope you enjoy!

Molly Hooper stood in the laboratory of St. Barts staring helplessly at the consulting detective before her. He had been there all morning and throughout the afternoon, without asking for anything or doing much but checking random samples in her microscope. Not that it was any different from any other day, of course, but then he had simply stopped. For the last few hours he had done nothing but sit hunched over in the same stool and stare at the test tubes lining the room. She wasn't even sure he was blinking any more.

There had been that awful business on the telly this morning, too. An incident she was almost sure he had been involved in. And that Doctor Watson, his flatmate, was sure to have been there as well. That's why, when the phone in her office had rang earlier that day, she hadn't given it a second thought that their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was on a hound's search for the taller man. He'd often go wandering about the city, so it didn't strike Molly as odd that he'd wound up here of all places.

There was a soft creaking of hinges as the door behind her opened and she turned with a start. Doctor John Watson looked grim, but freshly showered, which was more than she could probably say for Sherlock Holmes. She let out a sigh and walked up to him, instantly chattering away.

"Hello, John," she smiled. "Good to have you here." She glanced back at Sherlock and then turned again to John, whispering too loud to not be heard throughout the room "It's a good thing you came," she said, conspiratorially. "He's been like this all day now and..."

John brushed passed her, which was rather rude considering he was usually a warm and caring character towards her. Molly blinked for a few seconds at the physician and then at the seemingly broken man behind the counter. Something in the air seemed to change and Molly became acutely aware that she was not wanted any longer.

"I'll just, uh, I'll just be in my office. Down the hall if you need anything!" She said cheerily, though she felt increasingly uncomfortable.

Scrambling for the exit, she made her way out into the hallway. The door shut behind her and she breathed in the cool, damp air. For another few moments she hedged in her decision to leave them. Maybe she should get them both a nice cuppa? Or wait outside just in case Holmes was in one of his more foul moods? Her brow furrowed and she rubbed her face. No, neither of them liked to be disturbed when they were looking into a case. Yes, that must be it; something about the explosion this morning must have led them to a case. They would call her if they needed samples or bodies or chemicals- they always did.

Hesitantly she turned and made her way back to her desk. She would give them a few moments to sort out whatever new mess they were in and come check on them again later, when they made some progress and were ready to speak up about it.

John still stood, staring at Sherlock as the door clicked heavily shut behind him. Molly was sure to make herself known upon entering a room, so there was no reason to think she was still here. Silence  blanketed the two men in a dark, brooding pulse of emotions.

Eventually, John gave in. "It wasn't your fault, Sherlock."

The detective started, almost like he hadn't noticed John's presence in the room the last several minutes. It was true that he had become accustomed to tuning Molly out, but this was different. His head was still spinning and the lines that ran from 'cause' to 'effect' were being repeatedly influenced by new invitations of choices in an attempt to force the outcome to change- it didn't. All roads led back to the culmination of the day, the dawn that broke not with sunlight, but with a blinding ignition of fire and smoke and a populace screaming as they deviated from the normal paths of their dull lives to the office or morning coffee...

"Sherlock." John spoke again only to have the man immediately turn his back to him, the deep navy great coat wafting behind him as he turned his attention back to the microscope devoid of any slides. John let out a disgruntled sigh and took a step closer.

"Look, it isn't...it wasn't from any lack of effort on your side." He hedged. Somewhere from the lump on the stool he heard a 'hurumph' being expelled. "Lestrade said he was ready to blow up the bus, Sherlock."

"Lestrade is a buggering idiot."

"Notwithstanding, you made a call that was neither wrong nor correct..."

That got a response. Sherlock turned slowly on the stool and glared daggers at John who, to his credit, just stared back unperturbed.

"My calculations are never wrong. That man had the button in his hand the entire time..." He threw his hands up into the air and gave a particularly nasty look at the ceiling before settling on John again.

"You don't understand, none of you do. How could you when you look at everything so abstractly? It's not the simple idea of someone being unhinged or having a flight of fancy. Everything is meticulously planned out in their heads, every little idea and example is deliberated upon in their tiny, malicious brains. If you could, even for a  second , comprehend, you would see that there is exactly one way they can be stopped. One instance in which they thought to themselves that defeat is imminent and all you have to do is uncover that one instance before moving forward."

John crossed his arms. "You're talking in riddles again. Not every murderer, robber, no-good punk is the same."

"To YOU John, maybe not to YOU," Sherlock used both hands to emphasize the spot where John stood and then thrust them into his own chest. "But to ME they are all the same- no imagination and an extreme lack of disregard for everything and everyone on this tiny little planet!  He was just another maniac that thought he had a new puzzle that nobody can solve, when really he just hadn't directed it towards the right perso n-- "

"Meaning you," John supplied 

"Yes! Exactly!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and swung a full 360 degrees on the stool, his hands raising in the air as though calling up to the sky in thanks. John just rolled his eyes and looked away.

"What? What is it with you?" Sherlock asked, head cocked to one side in dark curiosity. "You're always asking me to  _feel_  for these people, aren't these *feelings* what you say humans base their daily lives on?" Sherlock pressed on in his usual fervor.

John looked up and stepped closer to him.  “Yes, Sherlock; I do ask you to  feel , but for some reason you’ve decided to go above and beyond. This time you actually are taking this at a personal level.” he began.

"Nothing is personal to me." Sherlock turned back towards the microscope but John grabbed a shoulder and spun him back around so that they faced each other.

"Then tell me why you've been shutting yourself away to look at blank slides all day and won’t considered the case to be closed as you normally would by now."

Sherlock went completely quiet, staring at John a moment longer before glancing back to the laminated table top at which he sat. "It's not important."

"Yes, it is." John countered and Sherlock's shoulders dropped while he let out an exasperated sigh 

"Because. Those people died. They died because I wasn't quick enough. I solved the case, we still had time to get them out of that bus before he demanded, and they died anyway." Sherlock stared at John from the corner of his eyes, but the doctor did not make a move. "Not one person on that bus could have made a wrong move, not with the way he had tied them up. We found him, we found the bus, and yet everything turned to ash for reasons I still can't understand."

"So, this is about you not being able to decipher the killer's final motive?" John accused, though it sounded a little harsher than he meant it.

"No, his motive was that he was a nutter who wanted attention. What I can't figure out is why he still blew up the damned bus when we had everything we needed and everything he wanted in the end."

Sherlock finished his rambling by standing up and kicking the stool to the side. It went skidding across the cheap linoleum with a shriek and halted by the next table of test tubes. John raised a single eyebrow as Sherlock remained standing, his long fingers splayed against the white surface of the table.

John sighed, somewhat defeated, "Some men are sore losers. You beat him at his game and he didn't like it."

"That's not good enough!" Sherlock bellowed, the anger in his voice reaching a pitch that sent warning bells off in John's head. There was a sudden realization that John needed to tread carefully, here. That Sherlock was no longer the detective but the aforementioned psycho with his hand on the button waiting for the right or wrong answer to his illogical puzzle.

"You can't control everything..."

Sherlock's fists pounding into the formidable counter top cut John off.

"CAN'T I ?!" 

There was a pause, as though the air held both their breaths for them while one waited for the other to make the next move.

Had John blinked he would have missed the two steps it took Sherlock to rise up to his face and glare him down, teeth bared. "Can I not?" Sherlock growled, his hands balled by his sides as he waited for an answer he knew, in the recesses of his brain, John would not give.

John watched the turmoil stir beneath Sherlock's eyes-those opalescent green eyes that flashed with the excitement in a murder and drowned in clouds when he fell from reality with cigarettes and drugs. Right now they were the angry, intense, eyes that John had seen amongst the most dangerous of men, men who were ready to tear you apart with everything they had if push came to shove. Men like Moriarty, standing over them in the pool with his finger on the trigger thinking, wondering, if he truly had the conviction to pull it in the end.

His partner, his companion, was a pendulum, brass and heavy as he swung across the thin line that separated 'madness' and 'genius.' While he was clearly (at least to John) on the side of genius, there were days when John could see the pendulum sway dangerously close to the opposing divide, the madness seeking desperately to seep into Sherlock's being in an attempt to take him over and swallow him whole. These were the days Sherlock would curl into a ball on the couch and smoke a thousand cigarettes; the days when he would play his violin as though he were trying to light it on fire by the mere draw of bow across strings.

Today was one of those days but, John realized a little belatedly, he had no outlet to distract him lying around.

John didn't flinch, though. He didn't back down. Not even when Sherlock's hands unclenched and came up to grasp John's face, harsher and more cruel than he had been touched before by the famous detective.

"I am the thought behind the action, I am the connection between the idiosyncrasies of the modern world, the vanguard of details when the murders have been completed. No one can do what I do and I can do it better than anyone who dare imitate my practices. Without me, without the facts and the truth the world would come crashing down, falling apart like wool on a blanket too often touched. ME! I am the reason these cases are solved and  I  am the only one who could choose whether those people were to live or to die." His voice trailed off in a whisper at the end as the full reality of what had happened played again in his mind. His fingers dug into John's face and twitched where the knuckles grew white.

John lifted his arms to cover Sherlock's hands with his own, his features softening a little, though he’d become acutely aware of the necessity to choose his words carefully.

"This was not your fault," he repeated. "You figured out the similarities within the inconsistencies of the killer's moves. You knew exactly where he was going and what he was doing, and save for a few minor scrapes against luck you didn’t make it in time." 

Sherlock's eyes snapped back to John's, the look on his face proving that the darkness he had succumbed to was still roiling inside him. It twisted and misshaped his thoughts as he ran through the day again and again until the people on the bus were nothing but lumps of clay. In his tortured mind the killer became little more than fangs dripping with insidious laughter amongst the shadow of strings pulled taught to force his puppet-victims to dance before him.

"Chance," Shelock breathed and John became tense.

The pendulum swung right, loftily floating behind dilated pupils into the space clearly marked 'genius' and hovered there for the breath of an instant before John witnessed it fall heavily to the left. Fearfully, John Watson witnessed as the heavy brass instrument holding Sherlock together shadowed the word 'madness' with it's presence, and the world tipped upside down in Sherlock's mind; his grip became a vice against John's skull, squeezing into it like the pressure of falling deep underwater.

"Chance does NOT make up the world. Chance is not how the facts attach themselves to a motive or how birds learned to fly with wings."

He pulled John's face ever closer, his breath hot and fierce as it fluttered over John's skin. Their noses pushed against one another painfully, like one who felt the need to force their face against the unyielding pane of a window. 

Sherlock absently nipped at John's lower lip. "Chance is not how I became accomplished nor is it how I grasp a conclusion. None of those people were on that bus by 'chance' and what happened today was not merely a flawed step in the swamp of humanity."

 He was shaking John's head, the pads of his fingers biting into the flesh so sharply John fought not to screw his eyes shut and break away. "I have never left things to 'chance' and I  will not  accept that as an answer to anything in this life."

Sherlock's lips crashed down on John's, so fast and hard that their teeth clinked uncomfortably and lips pinched between the force of their two jaws. Sherlock did not move save for his hands holding John to him, though John did struggle to pull apart. He needed air; he needed to find a new tactic, one to quell the fire that was burning so deep in the pit of Sherlock's stomach that its blue flame could set them both alight at any one moment.

But Sherlock did not relent. His lips began moving over John's, possessively and with abandon. He wasn't gentle nor was he tender. His touch was crude and unyielding and he pushed and pulled until John's body was flush against his; moved them both until John found himself trapped between the waist-high laboratory counter and the rigid body of Sherlock as his vice-like grip held him in place.

He was telling John what he needed, it was in his actions and in his desperation as he held John to him. Sherlock wanted John to feel it, too-feel the turmoil that consumed him; wanted John to understand that there was nothing outside of his power of deduction, he could to manipulate any scene in the world. This was everything to him and he was begging, compelling John to experience how he drowned when he was powerless and how he, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, Absent-Minded King among Fools could trump any situation and mold anybody to his liking. He wanted to show John that 'chance' had nothing to do with it.

John began to feel more than the crushing sensation in his bones where Sherlock's arm had wrapped tightly around him or the persistent press of the unyielding island in the lab dug cruelly digging into his hip. He felt the urgency and the plea in Sherlock's actions, and John complied pushing back into Sherlock, fighting for dominance over the kiss. Sherlock wanted John to feel it. Feel the turmoil that consumed him; wanted John to understand that there was nothing outside of his power of deduction, that he could manipulate any scene in the world as easily as this. But, for as much as Sherlock felt the necessity to prove his supremacy in the world, John felt the need to remind him of reality. It was his goal to keep Sherlock on the side of that thin line; to still the pendulum before it consumed its host and bring Sherlock back to the solidity of Earth and London proper.

John opened his mouth and Sherlock wasted no time in claiming the recesses of it, licking and sucking as tongues battled and teeth pinched at skin. John's fingers dug into Sherlock's great coat, barely reaching flesh as they burrowed into the coarse wool. Sherlock's right hand reached around the back of John's neck, those long fingers, reaching ever closer around the muscles toward John's collarbone while still managing to keep thumb extended along his jawline, while the other raked fingernails down his back, extracting shudders from John's body as they scraped over cotton.

John felt as the primal need in Sherlock poured from his skin, weeping into his shirt and saturating the space between them, but they were too close. Sherlock gripped John so helplessly close to him that John could not move his hands between their two bodies. Breaking the kiss, Sherlock moved down John's throat. He continued to sear his skin with bites, only stopping momentarily to suck above his Adam's apple almost cutting off the air supply for several seconds. John gasped for air and bucked his hips against Sherlock's body, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. His cock was reacting to the situation, but his mind reeled with the occurrences of the day. Sherlock was surely making his point, his ministrations quick but sharp enough to certainly leave marks that would be visible the following day. He ground against John almost painfully and his breathless gasps turned to vocal moans at the rough sensations.

Sherlock's hands moved downwards, pulling John against his own body and pushing, grating against the former soldier. The drilled-in counter top shook only minutely under their bodies; Sherlock used this to his advantage. John felt his back bend to the near breaking as Sherlock refused to let him win. The sheer force of his body dominated John and pushed him against the unmovable table while Sherlock reached around to the small of his back with one hand. His other slipped between them to grab, less forcefully, John's erection, before moving up to undo the belt that held his trousers in place. John's hand began scrabbling at Sherlock's arms, the cuffs of the coat, his shoulders to gain purchase. Sherlock kissed him roughly again, distracting John from trying to take over, forbidding him the privilege of touch this time. John found his hands grasping at curls-long locks that swirled and looped like a messy halo around pale skin, green eyes, and impossibly high cheekbones.

The belt came loose and in one fluid motion Sherlock pulled it from the depths of their bodies; his arm extending dramatically and holding the warm leather before dropping it to the ground. John turned to watch it fall, Sherlock attacking the side of his neck again as his hand returned to loosen the flies. John's body jerked in uncontrollable fits at the treatment he was unwillingly being subjected to, unable to decide if it was painful or strangely gratifying. 

Trousers fell from John's hips to pool around his ankles, leaving him in only his shirt and pants, supported by the table beneath him. He moved to raise himself up, but Sherlock jerked him away, momentarily pulling John out into the open to stand between himself and the counter. John felt strangely exposed in the cool air after having been sandwiched between Sherlock's unrelenting body and the laboratory equipment for so long. He chanced a look at Sherlock in that moment, lips swollen and face flushed to a light pink. In his eyes John still saw the pain, still saw the torment and the strange glare of the madman that niggled through the prodigy like a worm searching out the sweet spot of a fresh apple.

A few seconds later John felt his face being pushed against the cold hard top of the table, the microscope that had sat upon it making a terrible sound as it hit the floor and glass cracked inside hard plastic. Sherlock, one hand on John's back, the other gripping his hair had spun John around and bent him over the table. John began to panic. He was entirely unsure of where this was intended to lead. He made to get up but Sherlock pushed him back against the table top.

The hand upon his back began to travel south, toward the band of his underpants. It hovered there for a moment before sinking beneath the elastic. John sucked in a breath through his teeth and closed his eyes. Sherlock’s fingers followed the crease of his arse, down to cup his balls, and up the shaft of his erection as far as could be reached before returning to the crease again. He stroked thoroughly back and forth until the head of John's erection peaked from underneath his pants. The sticky residue of his pre-cum trailed back along with Sherlock’s hand, as he reached between the two cheeks to circle around his hole.

John let out moan, bringing one arm up to pillow his forehead between his head and the table. The hand removed itself and John heard the distinct sound of Sherlock spitting before it found it's way back to it's original position, probing John's entrance.

"Tell me, John." Sherlock's cold voice registered above the din of rushing sounds the blood being pumped throughout his body made. "Tell me again that it's all left to chance. Tell me that I am not in control."

The fingers began circling the tight bundle of nerves there and John's breathing came out shorter and more forceful.

The only words left out of that sentence were "I dare you" which is what John was about to point out, cheekily, when Sherlock slipped a solitary digit into him. The world seemed to tip over, even half laying across the table for support. The hand that had been gripping his hair began trailing up and down John's still shirted back, then slipped under the tails to grip John's belly, kneading the soft muscles there. It was torturous to have the hand so close to their goal and yet make no move towards the erection that begged to be touched.

A second finger joined the first and John cried out.

"No?" Sherlock's mouth was next to his ear now, his breath blowing across John's ear as he spoke. "Then describe to me, in detail, who  is  in control, against all the elements."

John's ear was wet as Sherlock seemed to lick the lobe, following the action by blowing cool air on it. John's hips bucked into the table and he moaned.

"Please."

"Wrong answer." Sherlock growled, a third digit joining the first two, now pumping and moving inside of him. John made to push back, to increase the friction that was so close to what he needed, but still not quite there...

Sherlock’s leg slid along the floor between John's open stance, his thigh pushing him back against the table to lock John into one position. This was a warning sign. John gritted his teeth and stilled his motions. He could hear the chuckle rumbling deep in Sherlock's chest, still beside him on the table. His fingers began to move again and John's whimpering only increased as Sherlock stroked and twisted inside of him. Then, he let two fingers free and John could hear himself begging again at the loss.

"Say it." Sherlock's hooked finger twisted upward and John felt his back dip, his stomach hitting the cold Formica of the counter top as he mewled at the sensation. "Say.It."

Sherlock growled deep in his throat when John's panting became more labored, gasping in the pleasure-pain of the situation. John's eyes popped open, hardly focusing on the scraped table top as he understood what it was Sherlock was asking. It was in this moment, here, that Sherlock exerted his full influence upon his faithful companion. He had pushed himself to show that there was, under no circumstance, an event he could not control. How he could turn even the slightest instance to his advantages in order to get the results he sought out.

John's cock wept under the table, the tip just close enough that the sticky residue trailed lines across the edges. Sherlock re-inserted another finger into John, stretching him out again, but still not filling him to bring enough friction he needed to get off. John screwed his eyes shut and pushed back on the fingers once more though they remained still. Sherlock's grip tightened on his stomach again, painfully digging back into muscle to stop him. John's breathing was labored and his teeth ground against themselves in frustration. 

"I'm waiting." 

The two fingers crossed over one another in a boy scout's promise and broke apart again, the digits sending short sparks against John’s prostate. He drew in several more breaths, not sure how much longer he could hold out against the man that stood beside him and held him in such a cold and calculating manner.

"John."

Sherlock's voice softened. John let out a scream of frustration that could be heard down the hallway and half way to Molly's office before giving in and calling out Sherlock's name.

There was absence around John as Sherlock pulled away. John slumped against the table, his legs ready to give out and his fingers digging deep into his own palms. His ears were so full with the rush of blood, he couldn't hear the movement beside him as Sherlock released himself from the confines of his own trousers. The pants slipped down John's hips to rest at his knees where the elastic held tight against the skin. His backside felt the heat of another as Sherlock pressed gently against him. Carefully, he framed the smaller man’s hips and guided his cock into John until he was buried deep inside. John let out a moan, feeling himself stretch and fill with Sherlock. It was comforting and almost enough to make him weep at the sensation. Sherlock began to move, only a thin sheen of saliva aiding him as he rocked back and forth with less and less control. He was not beating John against the counter any longer, but fucking him deeply, quickly. John could imagine the way Sherlock was probably biting his lip as he forced himself to stay in control of his own release

The great coat surrounded them both as sweat dripped heavily and pooled in the creases of the button up shirts they were wearing. Sherlock's name fell from John's lips over and over without the need to swallow them down any longer. Quickly, the deep thrusts turned more urgent and John felt himself teetering at the edge of his own orgasm.

Had the counter not been forcibly nailed to the floor, John was sure it would have pulled up long ago from their actions. His arms unfolded to stretch out before him, reaching to grip the edges on the opposite end of the table. He came, choking back sobs as the orgasm rocked his body. There was a loud eruption of sound from behind him as Sherlock accepted his own defeat, shuddering against John before collapsing heavily atop his body. They lay there, breathing erratically as each in turn fought for air. After several minutes Sherlock's hands lazily trailed up John's over-sensitive sides, creating more spasms from the friction of skin o n skin. John whimpered and was sure the noise escaping him was nothing a grown man should ever emit. Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to his neck and muttered the same two words over and over again. Two words John never heard leave the detective in all their time together.

John grunted, wriggling beneath the heavy body and Sherlock slid out of him, rolling over to lay half over the table and half standing. John pulled an arm beneath himself and leaned on his elbow. Turning to look at Sherlock, his chest rising and falling rapidly, John saw tears drip down the sides of his face, eyes shut against the flickering florescent lights.

As John watched his heart softened. It was over. The pendulum had re-situated itself to stand in the safer of the two zones it usually strained between. The feelings that Sherlock constantly fought so hard against were now attacking his conscience and John understood: Sherlock blamed himself for the loss of lives today that had shaken London so terribly. 

Sherlock's legs gave out and he slipped off the table, hitting the linoleum floor below with a sobbing crash. John pushed off the counter, breathing still as labored as though he had come back from a jog. He righted his pants, reaching down to bring his trousers back above his hips and sunk to the ground beside Sherlock.

John reached out and laid an arm around the great coat the detective still wore. The raven haired man shuddered and attempted to pull away, but it was only a halfhearted attempt at best. Eventually, Sherlock leaned into the embrace, his head slumping to adhere to the rise and fall of John's chest. Gradually, the darkness fell away, like ice melting in a river as spring chased away winter.

There was a bang behind them and John turned to see Molly in the doorway, the knob having hit the wall upon her entrance. She looked around the room for a few moments before her eyes landed on the two men below the table. Sherlock did not move from his position, but John's eyes met Molly's. At first she looked confused then, and John was sure she was about to figure it out, but the long trench still covered Sherlock's state of undress with its long coat tails. The discarded belt was overlooked in the disarray of the microscope that was laying shattered off to their right.

"Is everything ok?" Molly asked when she found her voice. "I heard strange shouts and...and…,” her voice turned angry. “Is that my microscope on the ground?"

John turned to look to the other side of Sherlock where, indeed, the broken microscope had fallen. He turned back towards Molly as she started entering the room.

"All right, Molly?" He asked kindly, attempting to hide the frayed edges to his own still-recovering voice. "Perhaps some tea? And maybe a few more minutes to get ourselves straightened out?"

Molly stopped with one foot still in the air. She was still trying to assess the situation, but from the looks of it Sherlock was knocked out behind the solid body of John Watson. Perhaps he had taken a sedative and Doctor Watson was allowing him to let the drug take effect? John waited for the realization to cross her face, but it never did. For certain she was bright in the sense of being book-smart, but her common sense was vastly overridden and further clouded by the strange array of the room. It was enough that John became instantly certain she was unaware of what had transpired in the laboratory bare minutes before.

"Yeah, all right, then." She answered, backing up rather than turning toward the door. "And I'll call you a cab, shall I? Get Sherlock off to bed." she suggested. 

John took a deep breath and forced a kind smile onto his face. "That would be lovely." He cooed as she slipped out the door. The last glimpse she had of the two were of Sherlock straightening out his back and what looked like John holding his elbow in preparation to help the other man stand. Sherlock's usual mask of indifference was plastered to his face in the harsh lighting. It was the same face that Molly thought was both beautiful and terrifying at times. The door clicked shut before she had the opportunity to see anything else.

Frowning she turned back down the hallway and made her way to the staff kitchen. Give them a few minutes, yeah, she was sure they were both still extremely distraught from the day’s events.

She had no idea.


End file.
